Cormacolindor
by Frodo Silverlune
Summary: There is something Frodo longs for more than anything he has known. But obtaining it may cost him its worth, and may tear from him any chance of tasting the shadow of his dream. Warning: self injury
1. Chapter 1

**Cormacolindor**

_By FrodoBaggins87_

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings.

**Chapter 1**

* * *

A tiny brass bell tinkled merrily as the door of the tailor's shop swung open with a sticky wave of mid-summer heat. The shop was pleasantly cool inside with the deep, tangy scent of new cloth, lavender, and mothballs wafting in the air. The small room was lined on all four sides with stacks upon stacks of different kinds of materials: soft blues, dark browns, rich velvets, and creamy satin. In the middle of the floor, in front of a small doorway leading to back rooms, stood a long desk, pins and buttons, a long measuring-tape and a pair of shiny spectacles cluttering its walnut surface. Clearly, this was one of the wealthier shops in Hobbiton.

The two customers stepped gratefully inside the shop, breathing a sigh of relief to have escaped the hot afternoon sun. The younger of the pairs' eyes wandered to the daunting walls before him, wondering absently whether these particular materials were really for wearing every day.

There was a scrape of chair legs in the back room and a middle-aged hobbit ambled into the shop.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Baggins!" he exclaimed, bowing from the waist to the elder customer. "It's wonderful to see you!" His eye sparkled merrily as he beheld his regular customers' companion. "My, is this young Frodo that I've been hearing so much about?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Frodo answered softly, bowing in return. By now he was weary his uncle's friends patting him on the head, exclaiming over how much he'd grown. After all, he was one-and-twenty! He wasn't a child anymore. But it would have been rude to rebuke their welcome, so he tolerated it to the best of his ability.

"A hobbit's always got to see for himself," the tailor proclaimed, "is what I've always said. You have a smart nephew, Mr. Baggins. He'll be a real gentlehobbit in his day. Now, how may I help you?"

"As you know," Bilbo began while Frodo began inspecting a roll of intricately embroidered lace, "Frodo's just arrived from Buckland, and not with much of a wardrobe. I should like to look around first, before deciding what to buy."

"What articles of clothing did you have in mind?" the tailor asked, taking a seat behind his desk and taking out a rather large, leather-bound book of styles.

"A formal suit, perhaps one or two every-day sets, and a nightgown or two," Bilbo answered as though the volume of his order was of everyday occurrence. Frodo felt the blood rush to his face and he pretended to be very interested in a bolt of ivy-green wool. It hadn't pleased him at all, Bilbo's proposition to clothe him in 'attire befitting of a hobbit of your status,' but Bilbo had insisted, and since his uncle was so persistent, Frodo lost the argument. Now, he wondered why he had bothered to get up this morning.

He had never liked rich hobbits who displayed their wealth in extravagant exaggerations, especially in clothing. In Brandyhall, he had never been doted upon like Bilbo seemed to enjoy doing. He had been given enough to get by. His clothes weren't poor, but certainly not hinting at his Brandybuck heritage.

He glanced down at his worn, brown breeches and scratchy cotton shirt, mended in three places and missing a button. Perhaps Bilbo was right. Maybe he _did_ need a new pair of clothes, but certainly nothing _this_ fancy!

"Frodo-lad, come over here and look at these styles," Bilbo called, and reluctantly, the lad joined his uncle at the desk to pour over pages and pages of designs. Coats with high collars, coats with no collars, buttons on the cuff, a stripe running down the sleeve? No, too elegant, was his answer.

"Ah, I see," said the tailor after a while, "you want something plain, subtle, and with good taste. Perhaps you would like this….." He flipped a couple pages to the simpler section, yet still the styles were too overwhelming.

"Uncle," Frodo said at last, "you should pick they style. I would never be able to among all these choices."

"An excellent idea!" exclaimed the tailor, spirits rising slightly. He had noticed the lad's too-frequent glances at the price, and knew the uncle paid no such careful attention. It was too bad that the lad couldn't pick something he wanted, though. Perhaps it was a little overwhelming. After all, he did come from Buckland, and folks were queer down there. "Why don't you have a look at the fabric?" he suggested, hoping Bilbo's nephew would settle with something in that department.

As Bilbo poured once more over the book, Frodo started with the front wall to the left of the door. Marroon, scarlet, burgundy, buttercup linen passed his eye when he saw the price. Three gold pieces a yard! Incredible! Yet as his inspection continued, he saw only an increase in the prices, not a decrease. He tapped Bilbo carefully on the shoulder.

"Sir," he murmured, "perhaps this is not the right shop. The prices…"

"Nonsense!" Bilbo laughed. "Don't worry about the price lad. Pick whatever you like."

His response, however, although it was meant to encourage him, only confused him further. He had never gone shopping for clothes before! Hand-me-downs had always done their job.

Distractedly Frodo ran his finger along the soft fur of a dark red velvet.

"Excellent choice!" He snapped to attention as the two adults approached and the tailor pulled the bolt from the shelf, unfolding half a yard and holding it up to his face for Bilbo to see. "Beautiful color, don't you think? Perfect for a weskit."

Bilbo nodded with half a smile.

"That'll do."

Frodo opened his mouth to protest, but the tailor had already placed it behind the counter. He sighed, vowing not to touch anything else. He wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and glanced through the window outside. How much hotter could the day get?

* * *

"Up on your feet, Sam-lad! Run open the gate fer the masters."

Crawling out from underneath a rose bush where he'd been pulling weeds, young Samwise Gamgee sprinted through the garden and arrived just in time to pull open the gate as Master Bilbo and Frodo his nephew stepped through.

Bilbo smiled and ruffled his hair.

"Thank you, Sam!" The elderly hobbit snuck a sugar stick into the lads' hand, and Sam beamed with gratitude.

"Thank you, I mean, you're welcome Mr. Bilbo sir!"

One side of Frodo's mouth crept into a smile of amusement. Sam's heart swelled with happiness. In the fortnight since the 'young master's' arrival, he could have counted the times lesser smiles had made such emotion blossom within him. There was something about Frodo, something sad and secret beneath the surface that bound Sam to the dedication he was already displaying.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Frodo."

"The same to you, Sam, and thank you for opening the gate."

"My pleasure, sir."

Sam wanted to ask how he was doing, if he had enjoyed the time in town, if he could get a cold glass of lemonade for you, sir? But shyness blushed upon his face and he busied himself with the latch on the gate. By the time he was brave enough to turn around, the pair had already passed inside the house and his gaffer was calling at him to finish his weeding. With a sigh, Sam ducked again underneath the roses and began digging weeds from the earth in disappointment.

* * *

The sticky afternoon had evaporated into a thick and heavy night, yet a soft breeze drifted quietly in through Frodo's bedroom window, brushing aside the curtains and creeping occasionally to tickle the sweat on his brow. A single candle flickered on the bedside table as he slipped off his shirt and glanced at a series of small cuts on the inside of his upper left arm. A little pink, still, but not infected.

He pulled his nightshirt over his head and slipped off his breeches, crawling into bed and laying on his back beneath a thin sheet. He didn't like laying on his back. It made him feel vulnerable and exposed. At least the sheet covered his body from the invisible eyes. Eyes that stared and watched and gloated in loathing. But he couldn't fall asleep unless he laid on his back first. It was strange.

What dreams would haunt him tonight? What images would he wake with in the morning to wonder if they had really happened?

But he was tired, and sleep was what happened at night. He rolled onto his side as he felt drowsiness creeping upon him. He blew out the candle and let darkness take him.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Cormacolindor**

_By FrodoBaggins87_

Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings. Oh yes, and events in this story may be entirely unlikely, but that's the whole point. What if...

Note to reviewers: Yes, Neinna, 'Cormacolindor' does mean 'Ringbearer'. You're very smart, tee hee. Good job. Why did I choose to name this story Ringbearer when it takes place before the quest? Well, it's another name for Frodo and I like the way it sounds. It fits. But if I told you everything, what would the point be for reading? ;-) -FB

**Chapter 2

* * *

**

He remembered the first time. The first real time it had actually happened. Before he'd been too scared to really try, too scared and using the wrong tools. But now that was all behind him.

Frodo sat on his bed, thinking. He did a lot of that lately, sitting, staring into space, wondering why and if and when things would be different. Yet things were different now. He wasn't at Brandyhall where it had started, where no one gave him a second thought and didn't really care even if they had known.

True, when he first arrived at Bag End he'd been happier. Elated with the thrill of being adopted, it had stopped for a while. But as he began to become accustomed to his new life, new feelings, he had recognized mistakes. He had been getting too comfortable, too easily trusting. Too proud. And that had to stop. And thus it had begun again.

He traced a finger on his sleeve where the cuts were, and grasped his arm. There they were, reminders.

'Be careful, be careful,' they screamed.

Of what? He didn't want to think of that. He might start crying again, and crying did absolutely no good besides making him feel even worse.

"Frodo, are you up yet?"

"Yes, uncle," Frodo replied through his door, buttoning his weskit. "Almost done."

"Good. I left your second breakfast by the fire to keep warm."

"Thank you."

"Very well. I'll be in my study if you need me."

"Yes sir."

Bilbo's footsteps faded down the hall. That was something new. Before he'd had to find his own food if he missed a meal. He wondered what made his uncle bother.

Opening the door carefully, he peered out into the silent hall before emerging, shutting the door of his sanctuary securely behind him. He didn't like people uninvited in his room.

'Selfish, selfish!'

He wavered. He hated feeling selfish. But how could he change it? He entered the kitchen.

Porridge, muffins, fruit, sausage. How did his uncle expect him to eat all that? Besides, he didn't really like meat. Greasy, slimy meat glistening with the organs of other animals.

Frodo chose a pear from the bowl in the center of the table and caught a muffin in his other hand. He could hear the Gamgees working in the garden and found himself wandering outside in search of young Sam.

"Good morning, Mr. Frodo sir!"

A curly golden head sprinkled with dry leaves emerged from the hedge beneath the kitchen window, eyes sparkling with joy in the morning sunshine.

"Good morning Sam. Do you like cranberry muffins?"

"Oh yes, sir. My momma bakes the best around."

Frodo offered the muffin he was carrying, biting at the same time into the pear.

"We have extra this morning, would you like one?"

Sam blushed.

"Oh no, sir, my momma sent those over for you and Mr. Bilbo."

"Yes, and they're your favorite."

He held the pear in his mouth, took Sam's hand and placed the muffin in his dirty palm.

"There," he said, removing the pear, "you're working hard this morning. Enjoy."

Sam's eyes shone and he gingerly tasted the muffin, apparently relishing the treat.

"Your mother sends them out to everyone and you hardly get to taste them, am I right?"

The young lad nodded, chewing.

"Well, feel free to help yourself anytime, your da as well."

"Fank oo, sir."

Frodo couldn't help but smile as he turned around.

"Good day, Sam."

He hoped the presence of the pear would have deterred any questions about his own meal.

'Success.'

Once back inside, however, guilt poked at his celebration. He couldn't make people like him. Why, what a rude, uncaring thing to do. People were supposed to like him because of who he was. Who was he?

'Kind, thoughtful, intelligent.'

He knew the facts. People were supposed to like him. Like his qualities, that is. But him? Frodo? He knew what lurked behind what people seemed to see. If they knew him, really knew him, and what he did, the scars…

He shook his head and prepared to take the breakfast out. He knew a widow who had been ill lately, who deserved the food more than he did. He only hoped Bilbo wouldn't find out later if she came by to thank them.

Oh well, he would deal with that in its turn.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Cormacolindor**

_By FrodoSilverlune (formerly FrodoBaggins87)_

**Chapter 3

* * *

**

"Frodo-lad, I have a favor to ask of you."

"Mmhm?"

Frodo nodded without taking his eyes from mending a shirt.

"Would you run a few errands for me in town? I forgot I have an appointment this morning I cannot miss, and…"

"Of course I can."

Bilbo smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.

"There's a good lad. I'd have let the errands wait, but we're out of eggs and down to the last of the butter, and my carving knives really shouldn't wait to be sharpened. And I must return this book to the booksellers, and see how the tailor is coming along on your clothes…dear me, things pile up don't they?"

Frodo nodded, tying a knot in the thread and snipping the end carefully with a pair of sewing scissors.

"I don't mind," he said truthfully, already planning the most convenient route in his head. And one of Bilbo's errands was a perfect match to his own…

He stood and grabbed a wide-brimmed straw hat from the long row of pegs beside the front door, slipping the handle of the basket Bilbo handed him into the crook of his arm. His uncle pressed a silver coin into his hand with a wink.

"Enjoy a little something while you're at it," he hinted fondly, already retreating into the cool smial interior.

As Frodo opened the round door, a gust of heat greeted him, creeping around his face and tugging at the roots of his hair. Ugh…summer. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he felt the familiar handle of the knife slide into his fingers. Quickly he transferred it to the dark interior of the shopping basket among Bilbo's kitchen knives. How very convenient.

He allowed grim satisfaction to dwell in his heart as he set out upon the road.

* * *

Out of the corner of his eye, through the window Bilbo saw Frodo sneak something from his pocket into the basket.

'_Odd,'_ he thought to himself, then smiled. A true Baggins. His smile faded as his mind flew to his breast pocket. Frodo wasn't the only one who had his secrets.

* * *

Bumbleton the blacksmith pumped air into his forges' furnace using his massive bellow. Immediately the flames roared to brilliant orange life in the onslaught of air. Drawing a red-hot iron from the fire with long-handled tongs, he brought it to his anvil and began pounding away with practiced swings.

"Not that I need more heat," he grumbled to himself, sweat pouring down his face. Although he kept his curly hair out of his eyes with a bright blue handkerchief knotted about his head, the combined summer weather and the temperature of his shop made him wish some days he had chosen a different trade.

As he worked, a slender young hobbit lad with dark hair and a strange face stepped into the shade of the awning hung in front of Bumbleton's shop. Being a smithy, his workshop had no front door, rather, the entire wall of the barn-like structure opened to the public, allowing ventilation and a display of his trade to all passersby.

Bumbleton nodded and continued working until the metal was fashioned properly. Dropping it into a bucket of water with a loud hiss and cloud of steam, he removed his leather gloves and wiped his face, coming over to see his new customer.

"Good day to ye, sir," he smiled. "What could I do for ye?"

The lad inclined his head and reached into his basket, pulling out three large carving knives.

"Would you sharpen these for me?" He asked politely. His voice was calm and controlled with a slight Buckland accent.

"Might I have the honor of addressing Mr. Baggins' nephew?"

"Frodo Baggins at your service," the lad bowed.

"Bay Bumbleton at yours and your family's," the blacksmith returned, taking the knives over to his sharpening wheel. "How do you like Hobbiton, Mr. Frodo?"

The Baggins lad smiled.

"It's a wonderful town," he replied. "I only wish I could meet everyone as fast as they heard about me."

Bumbleton wasn't sure if that was a compliment. He merely nodded and set the stone wheel spinning, setting the edge of the knife against the whirling wheel. The grinding racket of metal against stone prevented further conversation for the moment.

Frodo watched the sparks fly from the blade as the blacksmith sharpened a knife. Cool anticipation pooled in his chest. He imagined the razor-sharp blade against his skin, so beautiful, so calming…

_White moonlight spilled through the window and pooled upon his bed, on the soft comfortable lumps of the quilt casting dark black shadows at the base of smooth hills._

_So pure, so beautiful._

_Frodo turned his face up to the brilliant moon, but did not see. His thoughts were red. Blood red. And his hand was the fire. And the knife was the flame. _

_He could draw no cooling water from the moonlight tonight. But would it really matter?_

_No._

_Slowly he drew his shirt over his head, exposing his bare upper torso. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror: a slender youth one might call handsome, hiding in the blue darkness away from the moon's direct gaze. _

_And the blade caught the light. A thousand stars reflected from the brilliant silver._

_His heart pounded with excitement and lust burned hot behind his eyes. He knew what would trickle silently down his flesh. _

_Black. _

_A gentle breeze blew through the window and kissed the sweat on his brow. It felt good, smelled fresh and new and old and knowing._

_Frodo drew the tip of the blade quickly across his abdomen. He felt the slender, sharp edge snake through his skin without pain. And the first drops of black blood pearled at the end of the cut, grew heavy, and slid effortlessly down. Before it could fall, however, he caught it on the tip of his finger and brought it into the moonlight._

_Instantly crimson the blood turned. Striking in a world of gray and black and white, here was a single petal of color. He touched his tongue. Bitter metal- the sharp taste of blood. His blood. _

"Frodo?"

Snapped from his trance, Frodo looked up to see the blacksmith staring at him, finished knives held in his hand. The blood rushed to his cheeks.

"Sorry," he apologized, placing the knives in his basket. He withdrew one more.

Bumbleton took the delicate dagger Frodo offered him and withdrew it from its leather casing. It was small, no larger than a letter opener. The hilt seemed solid silver, engraved with elegant designs of leaves and vines. He tested the edge of the long, thin blade.

"This is pretty sharp, are you sure you want it finer?"

"Yes please," the Baggins lad said quickly. Bumbleton shrugged and turned back to his wheel.

_Suddenly the guilt came. _

_Shame burned his eyes as the throbbing cut began to cry. Hurriedly he dabbed at the wound with his bandages. Red handkerchiefs to hide the stains- a gift from an aunt. _

_Hardly could he wipe down the blade, his hand shook so. He wanted nothing more than to weep for what he had become. What would Bilbo do if he knew?_

_Well, he wouldn't tell. He had imagined showing his beloved uncle his scars, and the internal pain gripped his chest with its iron claws and twisted the fragile strings inside. So much pain, so much pain. He could never bring that upon dear Bilbo._

Frodo thanked the blacksmith, paid him, and placing the sheathed knife among his purchases, walked back into the dusty heat of the road.

_Sam…_

_A child. An innocent, lovable child. So young. He couldn't dream of doing that to poor Sam._

_No one._

_He was alone._

Frodo quickened his steps. Sweat already damped his back and trickled down his arms. He could scarcely wait for tonight when his new blade could be tested.

'_This is wrong. You're insane.'_

He pushed the thought from his mind. Perhaps, but who cared if he was insane? He was just another hobbit in the world. He didn't matter.

_Frodo laid his head down on the pillow and allowed invisible tears to lull him to sleep.

* * *

_

To be continued! Sorry I haven't updated in a while...hope i made up for it. 


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